


for fear that you find out

by Iazarus_rising



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Getting Together, M/M, Short One Shot, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sort Of, geralt acknowledges the verbal abuse he's been getting as a witcher, slight angst I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iazarus_rising/pseuds/Iazarus_rising
Summary: Geralt thinks he’s got nothing left to be scared of. He’s lived for too long, seen too much.And then, a certain bard enters his life.He makes Geralt realise he has one more fear to conquer.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 369
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, these bitches gay! good for them!!





	for fear that you find out

There isn’t much left in this world for Geralt of Rivia to be scared of. He’s seen too much in his one hundred year long life, he’s lived for too long. He’s seen unspeakable horrors, he’s seen monsters, both human and inhuman. He’s seen senseless violence. He’s been at its receiving end.

And maybe it has made him just a little bit bitter, just slightly grumpy. He’s grown tired of people calling him a witcher, or a butcher, but never Geralt, no, that would be too humanising. He’s grown tired of hearing townsfolk mutter “monster”, or “mutant”, or “abomination” under their breaths as he walks by.

It’s not like he doesn’t know how monstrous he is. Geralt is perfectly aware of that, of how different he is with his white hair and golden eyes and abnormal reflexes. A human once, broken, reshaped and molded into something different, serving a purpose.

Geralt got the purpose wrong when he was younger. He thought he would be the saviour of humanity, the knight in shining armour. He thought he would be thanked, and called a hero. And then his very first kill happened.

His expectations were crushed very early on. He realised just what exactly he was to regular people, how monstrous he looked after drinking a potion or two. He would never be the knight, because, well; if Geralt is what haunts the monsters in their dreams, if he is the cautionary tale the vampires and werewolves pass on to each other, then what does that make _him_?

It took him a while to realise this, but Geralt of Rivia is the biggest monstrosity of them all.

So when a bard approaches him in a tavern, Geralt thinks this must be some kind of a mistake. Maybe this man is too young to know the story of the Butcher of Blaviken. Maybe he hasn’t seen a witcher before. Or maybe he’s just plain stupid.

At first, Geralt expects the bard to leave. He expects those magic words to drop any minute, he’s just waiting for the realisation to hit the young man.

But the bard recognises him. And he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t call Geralt those awful names, he talks to him like he was a normal person and not a mutant. The bard doesn’t call him a witcher, or a butcher, but he calls him by his name. He whines and drags the as out, but Geralt doesn’t mind. The bard becomes a constant in his life, a companion and a friend to talk to when no one else would even look at him. Geralt genuinely enjoys the man’s company; his constant blabbering is a nice change of pace from the ambient noises of the forests and lakes and mountains. His tales of banquets and palaces and castles make for pleasant white noise, and Geralt finds himself actually listening about all those places he rarely gets to visit. Geralt of Rivia is a monsterhunter, a huntsman, and kings and queens only send for them when a monster has overstayed its welcome.

He still half-expects for the bard to leave. Geralt knows he will, as soon as he sees him after the elixirs start working, with his skin pale as a deadman’s. His pupils dilated, completely black, a void staring right back into him. His face, riddled and marred by the veins popping up everywhere.

Geralt knows the bard will leave when he sees his true colours.

There isn’t much left in this world for Geralt of Rivia to be scared of. It just so happens the thing he’s afraid of is a certain bard seeing him for who he truly is.

A monster.

So he starts avoiding drinking the elixirs, even if he ends up with a few more cuts and bruises than usual. Geralt knows he’s living a lie, he knows he’s delusional in thinking the bard will stay with him for a long time. He hopes he will be able to enjoy his presence just a bit longer, that's all there is to it.

But then, he’s forced to face reality.

Geralt is sat by a fire in the forest, the trophy from the Leshy he’s just killed placed safely right next to him. The potions he’s drunk are still keeping a hold on him, his face still horrifying and alien. His eyes are closed, his chin resting on his chest, the body deep in meditation.

The silence is shot dead by the sounds of footsteps. Geralt is ripped away from his sleep-like state, he almost reaches for his sword, but then a familiar voice echoes throughout the forest.

“Geralt! What are you doing here?” Jaskier asks, his voice cheery and bright, as it usually is. He walks closer to where the witcher is sitting and, much to Geralt’s horror, steps into the light and sits down by the fire.

Geralt doesn’t dare to look up and see how beautiful Jaskier is, lit by the fire, the shadows dancing on his face. His brown hair suddenly looks like autumn leaves, his cornflower eyes bloom in the gleam. His lips are parted with a smile, a smile brighter than the fire crackling before them.

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his head even further, his hair falls to his face, casting a thin veil over it. He’s never been a religious person, and yet, he finds himself praying to whatever or whoever out there, just _please_ don’t let Jaskier see his face. Not right now.

Jaskier notices the head laying in the grass, the fear-inducing skull with antlers.

“What is that you’ve killed this time, huh? A Leshy?” The bard leans in for a closer look. “Sure looks like a Leshy to me. Was it hard to get him? Oh, how much coin will you get?”

Jaskier is met with silence.

Geralt is not the most talkative person Jaskier has ever met, but they talk. They have entire conversations. So it’s a bit odd for Geralt to leave the bard hanging like that.

Jaskier’s smile dies, like flowers stifled with snow when winter comes. 

“Geralt, is everything alright? Have you been hurt?” He asks, concerned.

“Mhm.” The witcher gives a mumble for an answer, still trying to hide his face from the bard, still hoping maybe he won’t run away after the first look.

And then, Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s face. He tugs the stray strands of hair behind his ear, and now the bard can see the true form of his friend.

Geralt has a lot of expectations. He expects to hear a yell, a shriek, a curse. He expects to hear the sounds of a rushed escape, the hard and loud thuds of feet mid-run.

He gets none of that.

“Are you sure you’re alright? From what I’ve heard from you, a Leshy can be quite tough.” Jaskier asks, voice gentle, careful.

Geralt opens his eyes.

“You’re not disgusted by me?” He points to his face and grimaces. “You don’t think I’m a monster, a mutant, after seeing _this_?”

“Geralt, honestly, one would think that I’ve made it pretty clear already. I’ve been following you for over, what, a decade now?”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Do you think I’d be flirting with you if it did?” Jaskier asks, off-handedly, a sly smirk creeping up onto his lips.

“Flirting?” Geralt is completely perplexed by this confession. He feels as if he has swallowed his own tongue.

Jaskier sighs, deeply, and looks at the sky, perhaps seeking the last bits of patience in his possession.

“Oh Sweet Melitele have mercy for this old fool, yes, Geralt, _flirting_. I’ve been going at it ever since we’ve met and you really haven’t noticed?”

“No.”

Jaskier shakes his head in disbelief.

“Well then, my friend, you are a lost cause, let me tell you that.” The bard pats the witcher on his shoulder.

Geralt has no idea why he does what he does next. Maybe he’s known it for some time, or maybe he’s realised it just now. Maybe he’s just so surprised by Jaskier’s reaction that he simply doesn’t know what else he could do. 

“Can I kiss you?” Geralt asks, his eyes dead-set on the bard.

And Jaskier smiles, the bright smile Geralt likes the best on him. He scoots closer and plants his lips on Geralt’s and the witcher can’t help it. He clings to the bard like a sinner to the saviour.

Like a heathen to a homily.

There is nothing left in this world for Geralt of Rivia to be scared of.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little something i managed to get out while working on the signs fic (it's coming, i promise). please let me know if you liked it, i appreciate it! my tumblr is julian-de-lettenhove


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